


Gasping for air, I'm choking

by Kay245



Series: And I still hear the sound of the pack when they howl [3]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Angst, F/M, Jealousy, Jon is a dragon but doesn't know it yet, Sibling Incest, Unresolved Sexual Tension, but really cousin incest, daenerys targaryen (mentionned) - Freeform, fall-out of affair, to resolved sexual tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-24
Updated: 2017-10-12
Packaged: 2019-01-04 22:41:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12177912
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kay245/pseuds/Kay245
Summary: After Daenerys confession of being unfaithful, Jon goes to Winterfell and faces up to his failing relationship with Daenerys. Meanwhile, Sansa has to deal with the consequences of Jon's anger. Until she finally snaps and confronts him. But there is danger when a maiden rises against a dragon, especially one that doesn't know himself.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello, so this is another part of the story in my head. It's set up kind at the middle-end of the story and deals with the growing sexual and romantic tension between Sansa and Jon.
> 
> To give you a bit of context:  
> Since Daenerys and Jon's arrival to Winterfell, a united front is presented against the Night King. The Starks, Jon, Daenerys and her advisors have all worked together to prevent the army of the dead to lay devastation to Westeros. A major blow has been dealt to the Night King when the Starks were able to take his dragon out and the Night King is now lurking in wait for another big battle. At the same time, the Second Sons have debarqued in Westeros to find Cersei Lannister dead. But rather than to surrender to the remainder of the Lannister forces in King's Landing, Daario demands for Daenerys to come and meet him. Daenerys goes and negociate for Daario to return to Essos.  
> If the State of affairs is going rather smoothly, all is not well on the personal side. Ever since Sansa's facing Viserion and almost death, hers and Jon's relationship is very tense with unacknowledged feelings on both sides. Jon and Daenerys relationships also suffers in return, Jon's growing estrangement leading Daenerys to find comfort in Daarios' arms in a moment of weakness and loneliness. She still loves Jon though, and confesses the affair to him when she comes back to Winterfell to try and salvage their relationship.
> 
> So there is where we stand in terms of plot in the story.
> 
> As for other details, for plot reasons, rather than have everybody stationed in Winterfell, I decided that Daenerys would have quarters in Winterfell but also in a camp with her armies not far away from Winterfell (the idea behind it was to avoid the Northern lords to feel under siege by the Unsullied and Dothrakis and also not to put Winterfell food resources under too much strain). However, the camp is not far away, and all characters can go back and forth between Winterfell and the camp. There is also a lot of cooperation between the North and the South, with always an emissary staying at the other's camp/keep, which explains that Tyrion is in Winterfell while his Queen is not there and the absence of Davos (in the camp while Jon is in Winterfell).
> 
> Jon still doesn't know about his heritage (to make it short, when Sam saw that Jon was in love with Daenerys when they both arrived at Winterfell and knowing that Jon doesn't care about the Iron Throne, he decided not to tell anything for his best friend happiness. As for Bran, well, Bran is focused on the Night King right now).
> 
>  
> 
> Jon is quite dark on this fic and it is on purpose. He is under a lot of strain right now, with his collapsing relationship with Daenerys and the unresolved feelings he has for Sansa. The possible political repercussions of those two things is also a lot of pressure. So, here is a dark, brooding, vicious Jon.  
> Because I like that trope, I choose to identify that side of Jon with his "dragon blood" and have Sansa being the one to awaken the dragon in him (also it fits nicely since Targaryen don't really give a shit about incest and such, which works nicely in this case).

After the dinner was almost at its end, Sansa stood up and took her leave. She ignored the knowing look shot her way by Tyrion and smiled at the Lords and Wildlings that saluted her. She briskly walked as was her habit now, while worry started to curl her stomach again. From what she’d seen in the dinner hall, the men who’d trained with Jon today - was _training_ the right word, though - had been more black and blue than the pink and red of recently exercised skin. She remembered her quip about the state of their King. _My lords, our grace won’t be joining for dinner._ _Looking at how fierce you must have trained, I truly understand that he is the worse for wear. Well, with such dedication, I’m sure that the Night King will be cowering before long in face of such bravery._ The bannerman had laughed and cheered in good humour. Now, thinking on it, the humour fled her and she pushed herself faster to Jon’s chambers. Surely, he hadn’t been grievously injured?

 

She entered the room in a hurry, not waiting for any servant to show her in nor an answer to her knock. The room was warm, much warmer than she was used to and sprawled in a chair in front of the fire, Jon was picking some dry fruits from a nearby tray. She stopped immediately as his eyes turned sharply to her. Oblivious to his state of undress, her eyes roamed across his body, cataloguing for any sight of serious harm. The shock of the rusted scars from his brother's’ betrayal only lasted a few seconds, before her eyes looked out for more recent injuries and found nothing grievous besides black bruises and a tight bandage across his chest and shoulders. Reassured that there was no blood oozing from it, she let out a sigh she didn’t know she’d held. Jon frowned a bit in response and after a beat, turned his gaze toward the fire. 

 

The gesture of dismissal ignited a fire that had been previously banked by her worry. She’d been almost sick with it and here was the man, just picking at his food, all the while she’d had to smile and exchange pleasant japes with Northern Lords. Not discounting either the uncomfortable discussion that she’d had with the Dragon Queen’s Hand during the meal. She could still remember the condescending look and taunts of her former husband when she’d asked if Lord Mormont was to join them.  _ After how your King trained with his own men? I might be unfamiliar with the ways of the North, but I wouldn’t risk my queen’s most faithful knight to your King’s moods _ , he’d told with barely amused scorn. Sansa had felt taken aback at that. From what she’d perceived, Ser Jorah’s feelings towards the beautiful Targaryen were and had always been unrequited. She couldn’t conceive why Jon would take a more violent umbrage to them. And even if that was so, how sending back Jorah’s to his queen would alleviate any jealousy? When she opened her mouth to question him, Tyrion had cut her with a sly statement that had sounded like an accusation.  _ Especially after he’d spent all his day enjoying the Lady of Winterfell’s attention _ . Her words died on her lips as well did all conversation of the remainder of the dinner. Fortunately, she’d been good at acting the pleasant host and none of her displeasure had shown through. Even if during all that while, she’d had wanted to wring her former husband’s little neck at implying that her going over how to cut intelligently the resources for refugees’ housing, Armies barracks and their defences’ reinforcement with Ser Jorah had been some silly disloyal, amusement.

 

Now that she was facing Jon and could clearly see his disdain for her, she could feel all that resentment flow up and overspill. 

 

“I’ve seen the men in the dining hall tonight. Is that what they consider training at the Wall or did you suddenly decide to facilitate to the Night King’s advance?” she asked in a sneer.

 

Jon kept looking at the fire and his careless shrug made her want to take his cup and splash ale all over him. A childish reaction to a childish action. She was the Lady of Winterfell, though and wouldn’t. She didn’t when she was ten, she wouldn’t now.

 

“Good then, I will enquire for more salve from Maester Wolkan.” she said, her teeth tightly clenched to keep her fury leashed. 

 

“You do that.” he replied blankly, his eyes still not moving from the fire.

 

“On further thought, if you want to keep on maiming fighting men, I would recommend that you go back to the Dothraki and Unsullied’s camp. Afterall, I don’t see why  _ my _ men should suffer when  _ she _ was the disloyal one.” she spat in furious scorn.

 

He turned to her then and the blithering anger in his eyes would have made her take a step back if it didn’t match her own. That he was angry, she could understand. That he was angry at her, when she did nothing in the first place. When she’d been forgiving and supporting while he’d more than once hurt her with his hasty decisions.  _ That _ , she wouldn’t let slide. If he was going to be an arse, then she’ll meet him with her self-righteousness. 

 

She saw his burned right hand clenching and unclenching as if he imagined her phantom neck under them. Finally, he abruptly stood up and went to serve himself more ale, turning his back to her. The fires of the hearth seemed the only light now and it danced over his almost bare skin giving off a demonic atmosphere to the rooms. When he turned to her, lifting his cup to his lips, he challenged her with his eyes before taking a gulp. He drank and released a rude hiss. She knew he wanted to offend her sensibilities and she almost expressed her scorn aloud. What did he think? She’d seen worse. She’d  _ experienced _ worse. Her mind replayed the clenching of his hands. Ramsay had choked her more than once, hadn’t bothered to will the itch away. A lack of manners certainly was laughable in comparison.

 

“You’d enjoy that, wouldn’t you? Me going back to bash some heads and deepening the strife between Daenerys and me?” he sneered at her.

 

“Really?” she asked, her breath caught in her chest in startlement. “That’s why you’re angry against me? Because you think I  _ enjoy  _ your resentment of your lover? When no longer than this morning, you accused me of making too light of her affair?” She shook her head at the lack of logic. “After all I have done, why would I  _ enjoy the strife _ between the two of you?” she asked accusingly, her arms a tight bind across her chest.

 

The letal flames in Jon’s eyes grew wilder as she reminded him of the senseless accusation of the morning. His features twisted in a dark scowl, his hand rough over the cup before he settled it on the coffer he was leaning against.

 

“I don’t know. I’ve never been the one with the political mind. Never been taught about the intricacies of using chaos as a ladder.”

 

His voice had a low venom to it that made her blanch faster than the horrid accusations they carried. She felt her composure broke and had to fight against the sudden moisture that threatened to blind her eyes. His face crumbled in a guilt-ridden flash and she knew that he could see the shine of water in hers. She looked down at his body, catching the shadow or beginning of a movement coursing through the arms supporting him against the coffer. The muscles were tense, crunched in wait for propelling him forward. Her heart froze in ice and she turned her gaze to the fire. They could let it at that or she could accept Jon’s pity as a mimic of apology. She disregarded both. For once, she was tired of letting that bruising bond between them fester further. It was time to clean the wound. She’d rather take his resentment of what he thought she was than his pity of what she had been.

 

“So that’s what you think of me? That I’m just another Littlefinger?” she said, trying to compose her mask once again. Her eyes met Jon’s again in cold appraisal. Good, she reasoned when she saw the change on his features. All pity has fled him then and there was a -fire hot emotion blanketing his face.

 

Jon stalked to her in a predatory manner that should have made her turn and flee. But, no, she wouldn’t flee before him. She was never fleeing again, not when the only thing it brought her was more upset. She lifted her chin, ready to face the beast in her brother’s clothing. He kept coming but stopped just two feet before crowding her. 

 

“You want to know what I think of you, Sansa Stark?” he growled, his eyes a burning flame challenging her in a dangerous way.

 

She didn’t move, returned his stare with what she hoped was cool interest. There was a cruel smirk at his lips at her absence of response. She refused to cringe.

 

“You, Sansa Stark, are the shadow of a spoiled little girl with idealistic dreams of perfect princes and noble knights.” he started, his voice full of tense anger despite its velvety softness.

 

She didn’t budge, despite the stiffness cramping her spine. She would face his opinion of her, if it was the last thing she would do. No matter the dread, no matter the pain.

 

“A poor little girl who got her soul stricken by abuse and torment and then burned in the fire of humiliation and betrayal. Again and again. Until all that remains is a young woman whose all being has nothing to envy the sharpest and most beautiful blade of Valyrian steel. You’ve soaked up fire and strokes until your mind hardened in the fiercest weapon.”

 

His voice was a low murmur in the charged atmosphere, a brimming song sharpened further by the dark pit of his eyes, where sudden purplish hues seemed to be dancing fires. She was caught as a moth by a flame, and the oh-so-sharp mind that he was complimenting refused to tell her if that was a trap or a liberation. Her breathing increased and her body started to heat, but still, she couldn’t do anything else than stay under the spell of his words and presence.

 

“Then you plunged that blade into my soul and destroyed everything I hoped to be and everything I thought I was.”

 

Those last words lost her. She didn’t understand, she  _ couldn’t _ understand. Finally, her mettle broke and she took a step back. But Jon didn’t let her go, he followed her until she felt the wall at her back.

 

“You want to know the source of my anger, isn’t it? You want to know why a day of roughest duelling hasn’t yet tempered my ire?” he sneered at her.

 

“It’s because you’ve taken everything from me. Because when the woman I loved came to me in tears about her unfaithfulness, I felt nothing that I should have. I felt wounded pride, I felt sad for her desperation. What I didn’t feel was the deep torment of a betrayed love. You, Sansa Stark, with your loyalty, your selflessness, your beauty, you excised my heart from my chest and left a monster in its wake. Now, I’m no better than the Lannister or the Targaryen that I judged for their perverted ways. Now, I’m a beast who longs for nothing other than rutting with its own blood.”

 

Sansa felt a rush of heat engulf her at his words. Hateful, angry words that drew the image of… a declaration. Her heart stopped as her mind unearthed the hidden truth. One missed beat, two missed beats. A  _ love _ declaration. Her heart started beating again in a rush, panicked like a little bird in a cage. The warmth in the room became stifling as it seeped inside her until it pooled in her cheeks, in her bones, in her belly. She looked at the man before her, a man she could no longer pretend was just a brother to her. Se should be horrified at him, at herself. She should run and put up a front of propriety until they both forgot what had been confessed. But she didn’t.

 

“Don’t you fear me, sweet Sansa? Aren’t you horrified by what a beast I’ve become?” he said, his eyes leering on her body in a way he never had before, the dark blue-red flames in his eyes scorching her for all she had her stern northern armour of thick grey wool dress.

 

She looked him in the eyes, when his stare was done roaming her figure. She kept looking as, unbidden, the memory of a dead dragon came to her mind and the following kiss that should have never been shared. She remembered the desperation but also the passion of it. They’d silently chalked it up to the heat of the moment, the fear in face of death. Both of them choosing to ignore the veiled truth and avoiding any discussion about it. He’d gone back to his dragon queen and she’d worked herself in books and calculations of rations until a dreamless sleep would claim her nights after nights. They never discussed it. And now, embers that had never been doused came back to life in an angry fire. A fire that was threatening to consume her mind. 

 

As if he felt it, Jon leaned back, giving her more room to breathe. But oxygen only made the fire brighter and unconsciously she reached for him:

 

“Jon...” she whispered as she stretched her hand toward his chest.

 

Immediately, he caught her wrist and swiftly brought it back against the wall. The move should have made her jump in its brutality, but Jon controlled his strength and the thump was absorbed by his own roughened palm between her delicate hand and the wall. He was close now and their gazes met, only a few inches remaining between them. She knew he could feel her breathlessness against his lips, and the thought made more warmth pool in her belly. His eyes challenged hers and she knew he put her reaction on fear of him rather than.. the truth. She could escape this, she realised, let his misconceptions work in her favour and retreat until she found a way to stabilise the volatile situation between them. But as soon as it occurred to her, a tick on his mouth drew her gaze to his lips, those beautiful lips that had ravaged her mouth that terrible night they never spoke of. Her breath hitched. She immediately took her eyes back to his, but she was helpless against the truth of her feelings dawning on him. His eyes, rounded in surprise, slitted in recognition and took a sly and cruel slant as he neared closer and closer until his mouth was next to her ear.

 

“Sansa Stark, are you thinking about our kiss?” he growled in dark amusement.

 

She closed her eyes and leaned back against the wall. Finally, all was said between them. There were no more secrets, no more hidden longing. They knew the terrible truth of where they both stood. That this dreadful, sinful love was alive and shared between them.There was a relief in knowing. There was a shameful joy in the reciprocation. There was heat in its recognition. Jon nuzzled against her cheek and that sensitive part under her ear that made her shiver against him. Rough beard and soft lips painted licks of fire on her face and answered to a new ache deep inside her womb. His previous fierceness tightly leashed but not less heady as he dropped sweet kiss after sweet kiss. Her first time experiencing such delights, she couldn’t get enough of it, her reason and other painful memories drowned in the violence of her own desires. She let herself enjoy it, her soul bargaining with her mind for a moment of beautiful weakness. She closed her eyes harder and pressed herself against Jon, trying to map his whole body in her memory before the moment passed. His heat against her shivering form, his encompassing hardness against her softness. Oh, how long would she live in those precious and stolen seconds. Yet, they were Stark, and whatever they wanted, they not always could have. Not when it came at the expense of their honour, their duty to the North, their family’s stability. She knew it, and yet, her soul begged for another full minute of this. As his scarred hand came to cradle her face, turning her head to gain access to the long expanse of her neck, she knew they had to step back from the edge of that beautiful abyss.

 

“We can’t.” she murmured. A breathy, regretful whine. Long gone was the silver-tongued queen, those poor words the only ones she could find the strength to push out of her mouth.

 

Jon took a deep breath against her neck before pressing their foreheads together.

 

“I know.” his voice was a low rumble.

 

Yet, they didn’t move, still staying close, far too close to one another. Breathing the same air, feeling the same warmth, hearing the same ragged breath they shared. Sansa could feel her resolve weaken, beat after unsteady beat. She took a gulp of air and whispered urgently, raggedly.

 

“We can’t.”

 

“I  _ know _ .” he cried in an anguished answer.

 

They both opened their eyes and their gazes met, blue against grey. The little bubble of their mutual weakness finally burst. Jon stepped back, letting her regain her composure against the wall. After a few steps back in, his eyes became haunted.

 

“I… I’m so… I’m so sorry…. I imp..” he started in a stutter where she could read self-loathing and a kind of guilt she remembered from when they were children. From when her mother would scold him.

 

Immediately, she understood what had come to his mind. What he had feared he’d done in those few beautiful otherworldly moments. And while she’d considered hiding away from him just before, at that precise moment she couldn’t,  _ wouldn’t _ , abide letting him think he was alone in this. That he’d forced her in any way.  _ We need to trust each other _ whispered a little memory to her. She might not have kept her promise to him. Might not have trusted him in the political game. Might not trust him in that, still and be keeping secrets. But that was the game of thrones. When it came to her, she did and would trust him with her  _ soul _ . So, she forgot about her restrain, forgot about the Lady of Winterfell and launched herself at him. She took his face in both her hands, closing all the distance they’d barely managed.

 

“We can’t. But I  _ would _ .” she whispered against his lips, her eyes begging him to understand her. To understand her secret, their secret. That even if this was a deep shame, was she not the Lady of Winterfell or had he not been the King of the North, then she would have shared it gladly.

 

His eyes searched hers for a moment, their dark sullen despair looking for a confirmation. 

 

“I would.” she repeated again against his lips, breathing the truth of her own declaration into him.

 

That moment of epiphany crystallised. The rest became a blur as both their fragile leashes finally broke. Their bodies corralled into one another, following mouths fused in a heated kiss. One second and she was once again pushed forcibly against the wall, his arms around her as buffer, the only protection against the force of the impact. She didn’t care though, as she was drunk on the pleasure of having him against her, something in her howling at the idea of being closer still. As if sensing that secret desire, he hurled her up, grasping her thighs and closing them around his hips. She moaned in his mouth at the sensation, tightening her thighs on him to increase the pressure. He was hard against her, the length of him in his breeches, a solid presence against her core, one she couldn’t help but grind against. When he started rocking into her, into her throbbing core hidden by slicked underclothes, she had to bit his lips in rapture. His answering growl had her almost out of her skin and she moaned. Suddenly, everything faded until only she and he remained. They were lost in a fire of lust and in the pull and push of their bodies against one another. They could die like this, and how would it be a glorious death. 

 

They moved together, against each other, and all they were was that motion. Until a sudden lonely howl broke the peace of the night. Suddenly, everything else that was Jon Snow and Sansa Stark came back to them. They stopped, tremors of untaken pleasure still shaking their frames. They remained motionless, still untangled together in form but their mind already returned. Jon let her legs fall back to the ground, his hiss of denied pleasure a low sound between them. Her breath was deeply ragged, as if her desire was a malign illness nestled in her lungs. She felt as weak as if it was and rested her face against Jon’s neck. He kissed her hair. A deep soothing kiss, conveying all his feelings. She clenched one of his hands on her waist in reciprocation. They both knew the moment had passed. They both were back into their places. The King of the North, the Lady of Winterfell. Finally, they separated.

 

She slipped away from his chambers very quickly after that, not a word of goodbye, merely the swish of her dress as a sound. They didn’t speak in a silent agreement. Everything to keep closer to their heart this ethereal moment when they’d been almost one.  _ Almost _ . And yet, neither felt it had been almost.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello all, so this is a quick look at how Sansa and Jon handle their new admitted feelings and it is from Jon's POV. It is more of a drabble than anything lengthy (and there are probably some mistakes) because I'm pulling out very long hours at work and I'm so tired.
> 
> I hope you like it still.

One could think that all would have been drowned out by the unrealness of fighting a war against the undead, battling against immortal beings and being aided by mythical creatures. Yet, war was still war and from their side, it meant that there would be refugees to shelter, people to reassure, food to be found to nourish the armies and civilians alike. Fortunately, Sansa had become very adept at managing the everyday aspects of waging war. He scoffed as he realised that the little girl who’d dreamed of heroes and songs was now so efficient at such practical endeavours when he, who’d been taught to expect nothing more than harsh reality was the one heading into a battle straight out from fairytales.

 

“Something funny, my King?” asked falsely conversational Sansa next to him.

 

She was in her usual armour of dark furs, grey wool and cool congeniality. But after all those weeks at odds with each other, he could feel the renewed shared familiarity and humour between them. It was a relief, like being back in one’s own clean clothes after a cold and hard journey. It also really wasn’t one, because it made him itch to reach to her and do something. Something like taking her hand and entwine their fingers. Something like putting a stray curl of hair back behind her ear. Things that they couldn’t do. Even if they  _ both _ wanted to. He could however, allow himself just one look. One look when the queue of people relentlessly moving past them would mask them from prying eyes. People too lost in the grief of war and need for the pieces of bread and clothes from their King and Lady, to remark that said King looked upon said Lady with an eye that was far from brotherly.  

 

“You’re good at this you know.” he said as he met her eye, the current between them strong still despite their returned confessions.

 

She looked down demurely to grab for a piece of bread to give to the woman waiting in line. She couldn’t hide however the slight tug at the corners of her lips. This was one of those secret smiles that he had learned to treasure because they were the signs of a joy so big it pierced through Sansa’s practiced poise.He couldn't resist his own lips curving up and his eyes creaking.  


 

“Aye, I am.” she replied softly and Jon felt warmer when it reminded him of another conversation. One where she had told him that he was a good ruler. He might not have realised it then, but for Sansa to state this had lifted a weight from his shoulders. Even then, even when she was disagreeing with him, she had bolstered him. 

 

They continued distributing food and clothes, indicating to which person the refugees should go and  ask for shelter. In comfortable silence or as much as was possible with all the restraint they had to put between them. Whenever their hands brushed accidentally against one another, it was a battle not to linger. Not too try and caress the soft edge of her palm. He could see at the slight twitch of her long and delicate fingers that she felt the same as him. Every time there was an impulse to stand closer, to touch longer, to murmur nearer to her ear. Dangerous impulses fed by deeply starved desire.  He resisted the urge, though. Because of their respective roles and relationship to one another, a bit. Because he knew it was a struggle for her too and it eased his mind, much more. So they stayed, side by side, playing their roles of generous, benevolent King of the North and Lady of Winterfell to perfection. Only them knowing that underneath everything, even if it hadn’t been consummated and probably never would, there was a dance of words and gestures that belong only to them. 

 

They kept distributing, the line never ending, Jon refusing to leave, even after Davos had joined them. It was also his duty as a King to see to the needs to the poorest of his people, he lied to his Steward. Really, he knew it was only because at this precise time, he wouldn’t be anywhere else than next to Sansa, bathed in the light scent that always called to him as home. Despite the time they spent together in books and councils, there were very scarce moments when they could be a shed a bit their masks, could afford to loosen a bit the leash they had to impose upon themselves. Here, among the small folk, who would scrutinize their proximity? Who would count and ponder any look shared among them?  Maybe he should feel ashamed for indulging in his base longing for his sister rather than empathising with his subjects. Yet, all guilt and shame had run out after weeks spent on battlefields and room-enclosed in heavy politics. A part of him had become cynical. The small folk didn't really care for them for more than standing guardians of mercy and safety. They wouldn't care that he bread was distributed from their hands because it allowed him to be a step closer to Sansa than they usually did. There might have been a slight trace of guilt still, because he made sure to at least try and pay attention to those who wanted to talk. People were exhausted and lost in grief though, and their losses were to heavy to be easily put in words. Not everyone though.  


 

“It is so good to have our dear Lord and Lady of Winterfell back. I’ve prayed the old Gods everyday so that you’d be returned safely to us.” exclaimed an old woman who weepily crumbled in Sansa’s arms instead of taking the old coat given to her.    


 

“Don’t cry, we will do our best. Don’t cry, please.” replied Sansa, trying awkwardly to comfort the woman who'd tethered herself to the Lady of Winterfell as a babe in its mother's arms.  


 

Sansa, still as a doe spotted by a hunter, tried to give more words of comfort while trying to disengage herself as politely as she could. Jon almost intervened, knowing that his Lady was quite uneasy with others touching her but he was stopped by a slight warning look from Sansa. The woman finally put herself together and after a profusion of excuses, continued down the line. The comfortable atmosphere was broken though. Jon was still a bit unnerved at the demonstration, as was Davos. So easily a dagger could have been hidden under a heavy coat, so easily, the life of the lady of Winterfell could have been taken, he reflected wearily. Suddenly, the line of beggars was all assassins in disguise. And he couldn’t control the irrational thought. After a few minutes, it seemed he wasn’t the only one in dark thoughts as they finally in a silent agreement let replacements take their places.

 

As they walked, Jon caught sight of a guard at the beginning of the line who searched for hidden weapon and felt some relief as well as a feeling of stupidity. Of course, all precautions would have been taken to ensure Sansa’s and his security. He even remembered that he had greeted the guard before the distribution. So why, had he felt so destabilised?

 

“Well, at least she was old and distraught enough to be considered mad. Well, she might be mad as well.” said curtly Davos next to him.

 

Sansa’s almost skipped a step on his other side but regained her composure immediately.

 

“People are distraught when they have lost everything Ser Davos. They want to cling to reassuring images. Don’t you agree?” she said placidly but Jon knew there was a whole silent conversation happening between his Lady and his Steward.

 

“Of course, my Lady. Who would blame them? Not me that’s sure.” replied Davos cryptically.

 

Sansa relaxed and after a few more steps excused herself to attend other tasks that she was needed for as Lady of Winterfell. Jon kept musing about that strange conversation as he and Davos made their way to the headway above the training grounds. As they stopped a bit to have a look at the training men, he finally realised. Lord and Lady Stark. He wasn’t a Stark, not in name. He was no real Lord either. There had only been one person that he’d known by this name. Ned Stark. His father.

 

The old woman had mistaken him and Sansa for Ned Stark and Catelyn Stark returned. The implications were both humbling and terrifying. Humbling because it was a great compliment to be compared to one of the epitome of wise and good leaders. Terrifying because it blurred the differences between their and the older couple relationship to one another. People would make comparison, they would wonder and it might draw attention to the deep attraction between him and Sansa. An attraction that couldn’t be known. Not at such perilous and uncertain times. And now, Davos knew. His hands clenched on the rail until his knuckles turned white as worry gnawed at his gut. 

 

“Bah, don’t worry yourself. As the Lady said, grieved folks turn a bit mad. Moreover, wisdom is very near madness, so who could judge really?” Nonchalantly said Davos.

 

Jon didn’t reply but understood all the same. Davos probably didn't approve but he wouldn't judge either. Jon's hands unclenched from the rail. He took a breath, a bit of that Sansa’s scent lingering over him. The feeling of relief and comfort warmed him. He smiled at Davos before they resumed their walk. 


End file.
